


Faces don't change

by bblamentation



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12564000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bblamentation/pseuds/bblamentation
Summary: Neil had always hated his face more so as the body ages.People age.It's something Neil had never accounted for; he never thought he would reach twenty let alone thirty.





	Faces don't change

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I don't know... This was gonna be a part of a bigger thing but I'll never finish it.

“Nathan!”

Neil stopped breathing.

He was more than one step behind. Too late. He had only turned the corner of the street. There had been no time to check his full surroundings. His mother was reprimanding him. But her violent protection was nothing compared to his cruel anger.

Nathan Wesninski was standing in the shop window. His reflection first was of frigid shock before twisting into a cruel smile turned seeing his son for the first time in over a decade. He had risen, ready to laugh in the face of Stuart’s bullet. Nathan stood as still as his son was frozen but Nathan’s threat never ceased when standing.

“Abram.” He could hear his mother’s solid comfort. She always tried to steel him. But it was not until he saw the man standing beside his father could he breathe again. There stood Andrew Joseph Minyard. Thirty years, retired, but still standing beside…

Nathan Wesninski.

“Run,” Neil breathed as Nathan murmured a threat. His flight warred against his father’s fight. They were not safe here. Public spaces never mattered to the Wesninkis, not when Lola did such a great clean-up job.

The last time Lola had slid her sadistic fingers against Neil's skin, the runaway boy had asked Andrew to take back the promise. He had been right then. No matter, the strength of his fists and the deftness of knives they would be nothing to the Butcher’s wrath.

Still, Andrew reached for Nathan’s face as another man who had done wrong: grabbed Nathan's face by the cheeks. The inevitable pain was to come but it was not Andrew who succumbed under a bloodied anger, instead it was Neil’s cheeks that were pressed against his teeth. His face was dragged to the right away from the window whilst Nathan’s was pulled to face Andrew but his eyes were still locked on his son.

“Neil.”

The voice was not his mother’s; it took a moment for Neil to drag his eyes away from his father’s to Andrew’s hazel stare. Andrew held a scowl (as well as Neil's face, firm). Neil could thank Andrew knew the severity of his father. Why was he here?

“You are here with me,” Andrew said. “Your father is dead, you are fine.”

The words were familiar but they were true. Something Neil could have: the truth. Neil blinked. The Andrew before him was not the young goalkeeper of the Foxes. It was an athlete close to retirement, skin rough from training and age, and eyes that could see only Neil. Andrew Minyard was looking at the face of Neil Abram Josten, twenty-eight, Olympic medalist, standing not running. In his steel, Andrew let go of Neil’s face, dragged his fingers from his chin down his throat. Pressing two fingers in skin.

Neil held Andrew’s gaze, strengthening himself in that gaze he had lived with for the past decade.

“I’m here,” Neil said.

Andrew waited ten seconds before he withdrew his fingers. His hands went back to his side but he did not move from his side.

“Nathan!” The voice was jovial and loose. Neil watched a mother laughed as a young boy ran towards her.

There were no Wesninskis in the vicinity.

They were all dead.


End file.
